


Retracing

by havisham



Category: Captain America (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Artists, Drawing, Emotional Baggage, M/M, Stealth Crossover, tiny crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky closed the book with a snap. “Not likely. I know how these things work. I’m your muse now, boy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retracing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vague continuation my previous Steve/Bucky efforts, and also my vague feelings about this pairing. Written before I saw _The Avengers_ , and not very influenced on that movie, sorry. But the time period for the last part brings it to post- _Avengers_ territory. Maybe one day I’ll stop being a Nervous Nelly and actually deal with the Winter Soldier storyline, head on. Oh! And write action set-pieces. Crazier things have happened.
> 
> “Floppy bits” is a real, technical term, used by ~~me~~ artists every where. Maybe. 
> 
> And finally, thank you, [screwby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/screwby/pseuds/screwby) for a bang-up beta job! All remaining mistakes are mine.

_  
The boy David's  
Body shines in freshness, still unhandled,  
And thrusts its belly out a little in exact  
Shamelessness. Small, close, complacent,  
A labyrinth the gaze retraces_

_\-- Randell Jarrell, The Bronze David of Donatello_

 

**I.**

 

Steve would never describe himself as an artist.

And, for the most part, it wasn’t modesty talking either. Not entirely, anyway. 

Well, he wasn’t one of those starving in an icy garrett types, slaving away for their art. True, his stomach was more often empty than not, but then again, weren’t most people’s? All he and Bucky could afford was coffee and bread, and a few other things besides, and neither of them could cook. Not well, anyway. They couldn’t even make a good cup of joe, not even to save their lives.

The apartment they shared too was almost always cold, especially during these last few days of winter, where the chill clung stubbornly in the shadows and made Steve’s lungs even more sluggish and slow. 

But still.

He wasn’t one to complain, not to Bucky, who was still sleeping after his shift, nor to himself. He still had the morning before he had to report to the shop. He made his way to the tiny corner of their main room that the landlord insisted was a kitchen. 

There was a small stove, upon which rested a pot of coffee from yesterday. He bent down to rummage for a clean mug. After an intense search, he found a cracked gray mug, relatively clean. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and cautiously took a sip. 

_Awful._

The taste was oil-slick and black as depression, and twice as bitter. 

It took all of his will not to spit it out again. 

He dumped the rest into the sink, and tossed the grounds into the garbage pail. 

Quietly, grumbling to himself, he made another pot. 

 

He watched as the blue flame of the stove glowed bright against the dimness of the kitchen. 

It was the time of day that he didn’t have anything to do, particularly, and so he scrambled to find something to fill up the emptiness. Something. Anything. What he found was his old sketchbook -- all filled up, except for a couple pages in the back. Never one to waste anything, Steve turned to a fresh page. A stub of a pencil was tucked into the pages and came tumbling out. 

He played with it, rolling it around in his hands.

A white blank page, and he didn’t have a thing to fill it with. 

If he was the philosophical sort -- which he wasn’t -- he’d say that it was like his life, but that was _over-dramatic_ and --

“I thought I smelled coffee.” Bucky stumbled into the kitchen, invading the small space with noise -- the jangling keys and coins in his pocket, rattling the soup spoons in their cups. He turned and gave Steve a baleful glance. “I thought I’d make it today.” 

Steve shrugged and said, half-teasingly, “I couldn’t wait for you to get up. Might’ve been here the whole day...” 

Bucky murmured, “ _Shut up_.”

He stole Steve’s mug -- it was empty, anyway -- and poured himself a brimming mugful of the black brew. He winced as he took the first gulp. “ _Awful._ ” 

He took the room in a vague sweep, and then his gaze sharpened as it landed on to Steve, who was content at being watched. “I thought you’d given it up,” he said, idly, gesturing to Steve’s sketchbook. 

Steve rested his hands on the pages of his sketchbook. “Drawing? Nah.” 

Bucky sniffed, pretending to be offended. “Well, you don’t draw _me_ anymore.” 

As soon as Steve started to say, “As if you’d stand still enough…” Bucky was saying, “Hey, if you’re gonna spend good money to look at naked girls...” 

“ _Models_ , Bucky, they’re models, and you don’t just look...” 

He felt his face heat up. He had walked right into that one. 

And though Bucky was never one to let a good thing go, all he gave was a smug “ _Yeah_?” 

Of course, he also looked like he was to burst out laughing at any moment. 

Steve wondered if he should pitch a fit right then and shout. _All right, all right, we all know you don’t have a problem getting girls to take off their clothes for you, but we aren’t all... Like you!_  
He didn’t say any of that. He didn’t want to fight, not today. Not with Bucky. 

So instead, he kneaded his brow and sighed, his breath gusting out like smoke in the chilly air. Steve didn’t smoke, couldn’t smoke, he’d watch in envy as Bucky would, watch the way his throat worked easily as a well-oiled joint, as he breathed in and out, smoke playing at his shadowed features. It was beautiful in a way that made Steve’s lungs ache in sympathy. 

Well. He wasn’t an artist. It made sense that he wasn’t a poet either. 

This was _not_ how he imagined spending his morning. 

Oblivious to Steve’s discomfort, Bucky went on, “You should, one, bring me along, and two, let me do it too.” 

Steve stopped fussing with the pencil, which slid out of his hands and landed on the tablecloth with a muffled clatter. 

“You mean it?” His voice -- shamefully -- squeaked. 

Bucky nodded, nonchalant. “Yeah.” 

“You’d have to take off your clothes,” said Steve. Well, he didn’t _have_ to, but, Bucky didn’t know that. 

And Bucky, he knew Steve was having it over on him, but he’d never back down from any kind of challenge, not when he was still breathing. So he gave Steve his most impudent grin, “Let’s see if you can handle it, big guy.” 

Steve tried not to look too impressed.

\+ 

But he was prone to guilt. He told Bucky, as they walked into the art school’s open studio, that he didn’t really have to pose for him. “But don’t ogle at the girls, okay? They gotta pay rent somehow.” 

Bucky looked hurt. “I don’t know what to be more offended by - the fact that you don’t want to draw me -- or that you don’t think I can conduct myself in front of young ladies.” 

Steve coughed, hard, and Bucky slapped his back, harder than he might have otherwise done. Steve trailed behind him, still weezing as Bucky went in. He closed the door before Steve got all the way in, and turned to smile his apologies, and walked away. 

_The ass._ … Which was something Steve didn’t say, because, after all, his mother had taught him never to swear. 

 

Later, Bucky became bored, but as a gesture of goodwill and all that, only Steve knew about it. The notes he slipped into Steve’s hands were meant only for him, anyway. 

Steve kept a couple of them. What they lack in anatomical correctness, they made up in … spirit.

 

**II.**

Winter finally loosened its grip on the city, and even the chill left the air of their apartment, replaced instead with a muggy, breathless heat that made it into an oven. 

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the heat pervaded everything, making everyone move in a languorous way through the streets and back-alleys of Williamsburg. Perched as he was, high above them on the fire-escape outside his apartment, Steve could see it all. He had spent the afternoon sketching the people as they went past below him. Occasionally, someone would look up and shout him a greeting, but mostly he was ignored, and that was how he liked it. 

 

He could spend the whole day like this, just watching life go by. 

But of course, that wasn’t to be. He heard a sharp whistle from below. Crouching, he peered down. In the courtyard below, he saw Neeley Nolan track in, with Bucky in tow. Bucky now, he looked flushed and a little rumpled, and he was holding on to Nolan’s arm in a way that Steve didn’t very much like. 

“Hello, Mr. Nolan!” He shouted, and they both looked up. Bucky gave him a lazy wave, and Nolan nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Buck, you coming up?” He tried not to let worry creep into his voice.

Neeley Nolan didn’t have the best reputation, exactly. Though he was immensely popular, loved by just about everyone. A nagging voice in his head said, “So? Bucky is too, if you hadn’t noticed...”

He just loved coming back to the old neighborhood, though of course, he’d gone on to newer and better things now that he’d passed his police lieutenant’s exam. Oh, Nolan was going places all right... 

But not with Bucky. 

But Bucky was waving him off, saying that he’d be along later. 

Unless Steve wanted to tag along...? 

“No thanks,” he said, and slumped back into the apartment, and tried not to sulk.

\+ 

It was after midnight before Bucky came back, knocking on the door hard enough to wake up the people on both sides of their door. Steve, sleepy and forgetfully, fumbled at the latch for a moment, before yanking the heavy wooden door open. Bucky stumbled in, hands grabbing the lapels of Steve’s pajamas. “Stevie! Boy oh boy, did you miss something, all right!” 

“Yeah?”

Steve started pushing Bucky towards the sink, so he could splash his face with something at least before crashing for the night. Bucky was disinclined to go, as he wrapped a firm hand around Steve’s shoulders, and stooped, really stooped down to Steve, and said in stage whisper that carried all around, “Hey, don’t feel bad. It wasn’t that great.” 

“Okay, that’s good,” Steve said, managing to lock the door before Bucky decided to get friendly again. Which he did, in due time, crowding Steve out against the door, his back bumping into to doorknob. “Neeley’s an asshole,” he sighed. Steve stood still, watchful for a sign to move. Bucky blinked sadly at him. “You aren’t ashamed of me, are you, Steve?” 

“Of course not, why...” 

“You never go out with the fellas, so there was talk...” 

Impatiently, Steve broke Bucky’s hold, and began to tow the larger man to his bedroom. 

“There’s always talk. And I go out sometimes! It’s not fair to say I don’t.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t blame you. They’re assholes. All of ‘em.” 

“All except you, huh?” 

“That’s given.” 

Bucky rolled into bed, as easily as a duck to water. Belatedly, Steve remembered that he was still wearing his boots. He yanked them off, one by one, and none too gently. Meanwhile, Bucky had wrapped his blankets around him. Steve turned to go. 

 

“Steve?” 

Steve came back, and said, “Yeah, Buck?” 

The kiss Bucky gives him is whiskey-sour and scratchy on Steve’s cheek. 

“You’re a good friend.” 

Steve ducked his head. “Thanks. Now say good night.” 

“Night.” 

A bone-rattling yawn led Bucky to the land of sleep, as Steve slipped away as quietly as he could. 

 

\+ 

It wasn’t until late in August, when the sun was baking Williamsburg under a steady, wilting heat that Steve built up the courage to ask Bucky if he still wanted to do it. Bucky, who had emerged from the shower wet-haired and cheerful, looked at him for a minute in complete bewilderment. 

“Oh!” He said finally, and dropped the towel that had been wrapped around his hips. 

Steve nearly swallowed his tongue. “I’ll get your -- I’ll get my things.” 

Drawing someone is to stop, for a brief amount of time, as whoever they were. In a way, it was to be estranged from them. After the first few minutes of disbelief and barely suppressed hysteria. Steve was entirely too old to giggle at this sort of thing, he really was, but if Bucky started, then he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

There came a time when the person dissolved into a complex shape -- consumed his attention, the way the long line of the leg joined with a thigh, and continued to the pelvis -- he crosshatched the wiry hairs that cover Bucky’s privates (and tried not to blush) then turned his attention to his belly and chest and neck. There was his arms, splayed in a not-quite relaxed pose. And hands! 

Hands meant trouble for Steve, but Bucky’s were beautiful -- wonderfully shaped, full of untapped potential. 

Then there was his face, fixed on an expression of both boredom and amusement. 

His lips -- were perfect -- and were moving and Steve hissed in annoyance. 

“I feel like I should be eating grapes or something,” said Bucky. 

“Don’t move your mouth so much.” 

Bucky stuck out his tongue, a quick flick of fleshy red on a pink lip, and Steve wished he could get his hands on some pastels... 

Later, when Bucky was leafing through Steve’s sketchbook (without permission), Bucky found Steve trying to get some shut-eye, and smacked lightly on the head. “I am much, much better looking than this.” 

“Yeah? Maybe I disagree,” said Steve, rubbing his head, returning Bucky’s glare. 

Bucky closed the book with a snap. “Not likely. I know how these things work. I’m your muse now, boy.” 

 

**III.**

Steve didn’t draw much these days.

He couldn’t -- there was too much to do, too many demands of his time. The doodles he made during debriefing didn’t count. He was sure to carefully erase all signs of their existence before anyone was the wiser. Though, of course, Peggy caught him, and gave him a curious look. 

“What are you working today, Captain?” And before he had a chance to hide or deny it, she picked up the sheet of paper he had been sketching on and examined it closely. Ignoring Steve’s half-hearted efforts to get it back, she looked at it for a good long while. 

Handing it back, she said, “I am flattered that you tried to make me so pretty, Captain.” Her voice was neutral, but she did give him a small smile. 

“I didn’t have to try, Agent Carter.” _God, had he really said that?_

“Ah. Good to know.” She left before he could say anything more. 

It was always missed chances with her. 

 

\+ 

And Bucky... 

Well, Bucky never really got used to sitting still, to being observed minutely. 

He’d agree to sit and let Steve sketch for a few minutes, and then spring up again. Steve, with a protest half-formed on his lips, would be knocked back by the impact of Bucky launching himself at him, bearing him down to the ground. 

“Why just look,” he said, with his mouth bitten blood-red, “when you can touch?” 

Steve groaned -- “Seriously? That was awful, Buck. Get off me.” 

Bucky, smug, said, “Not all of you agrees.” 

Steve arched toward him. Bucky leaned down. 

He muttered, “You are terrible.” 

“Tell me you’d rather stare at me for an hour --” 

“That’s not just what I do --” 

“Or we could do --” 

Bucky kissed Steve. “This.” 

Steve sighed. “Fine.” 

 

**IV.**

That was many years and bodies ago. 

He was in danger, he realized quite quickly, of idealizing the past. Of course, it didn’t help that for him, the past wasn’t seventy years ago, but only so far as one -- two -- then three years past. 

Bucky and Peggy were freshly dead, for him. 

He didn’t draw anymore, lacking both the time and the inclination. His fingers sometimes twitched at the presence of a sharpened pencil or a block of paper (unconsciously tracing the lines of a half-forgotten face) but he was now well versed in ignoring his desires. Some well meaning soul, having read in Steve’s file about his artistic inclinations, had stocked a cupboard of his SHIELD-funded apartment with sketchbooks with firm bindings and boxes of charcoal. 

He didn’t touch any of that. 

He was afraid that his touch was no longer gentle -- skilled -- enough to capture what he wished to. To capture what was lost. 

\+ 

And things changed again. 

Bucky -- James now, he insisted, and Steve would never -- could never refuse him a thing, agreed on principle that Bucky was indeed James now. In his head, the other man would always be Bucky.

Steve visited Bucky’s little apartment as much as he could -- he hadn’t yet broached the topic that he could move in to Steve’s apartment, he could, indeed, move into Steve’s bed, if he wanted. 

The world had changed, when they had been sleeping, after all. 

Steve knocked on Bucky’s door, and every time Bucky answered, regarded him thoughtfully, and let him in, was a victory. Steve tried, he really did, to get Bucky to talk, since it was healthy, apparently, to talk about his issues, to talk about their issues. 

It didn’t work out so well.

But afterwards, Steve was cleaning himself off, and Bucky was lying perfectly still, eyes closed. Steve turned to him -- felt him tense -- and said, “Let me draw you.” 

Bucky didn’t move. His eyes stayed stubbornly closed. “No.” 

“Buck...” Steve tried again. “James … Remember when you said you were my muse?” 

Bucky finally turned to him, and said, “Yes.” 

“Well. You were. And you are.”

Steve leaned forward, angling towards Bucky. 

The fucked-up compass of his heart always would point to Bucky. 

Bucky, amused, tentatively touched his jaw, stroked it -- “You’re no good for me. I mean. We’re not good for each other.” 

Steve kissed Bucky’s fingers -- flesh that carried with it a faint tang of metal -- and said, “I don’t believe that.” 

“You’re not --” Bucky groaned, low in his throat. “ _Steve_ \-- you’re not the best judge of character --”

“ Excuse me, but I am an _excellent_ judge --” 

“Of _my_ character --” 

“God, Bucky. I know you so well that I --” 

“I’m your blind spot, your weakness and --” 

“Stop, Bucky, stop, stop...” 

Bucky stopped. Steve stopped. 

They stared at each other, as if they were seeing each other for the first time. 

Finally, Bucky said, slowly, “You’d still... Do it? Draw me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll make the coffee this time.” 

“Okay.” 

Drawing was a process of discovery, a way of mapping the contours of a body, the dangerous curves, the awkward angles, the floppy bits, bumpy hollows that made up one single person. A stick of charcoal at hand was more permanent than a touch. It lingered long after the subject moved, shifted, dissipated into memory. 

Bucky sat stiffly at first, eyes fixed on some distant point. But slowly, almost unwillingly, he began to relax. He blinked, and scratched behind his ear. 

He gave Steve a sleepy smile, eyes half-closed and mouth reluctantly pulled up in the corners. 

Steve took all of this it. He reacquainted himself the familiar lines of Bucky’s body, the ones he never forgot about. But then again, time had changed him, and that too was what interested Steve. New scars. New _limbs._

 

Drawing was a way of seeing, and Bucky was all he saw, or needed to see.


End file.
